


Anemone

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Book 4: Pawn in Frankincense, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Kissing as a Distraction, M/M, Rehabilitation, Surprise Kissing, for God's sake Jerott, the band Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23051452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: After months of poisoning by one of their roadies, Francis Crawford, the artist known as Lymond, needs a quiet spell in a private rehabilitation centre. Jerott Blyth accompanies him out of a desire to show solidarity - not because he thinks he needs to address anything about his own alcohol consumption. On one heady night in the garden, Francis realises that his presence is preventing Jerott from engaging with the process of withdrawal and healing.
Relationships: Jerott Blyth & Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny, Jerott Blyth/Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny, Jerott Blyth/Marthe (Lymond Chronicles)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7
Collections: Lymond fics set in the Band/'80s AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _You, you know that I try  
>  Try to tell you the truth, oh, baby don’t make me cry  
> You should be picking me up instead you’re dragging me down  
> Now I’m missing you more (more)  
> ‘cause baby you’re not around  
> Now that you’re not around_
> 
> _**The Brian Jonestown Massacre - Anemone** _

It was a warm night, even by Californian standards, and Jerott Blyth leaned back on the garden bench and wondered whether to just take the hip flask out of his pocket and let them catch him. Third strike and he would be out of the rehab centre that very night - no deposit, no refunds, no more attendants smelling of antiseptic telling him he needed to take something or other more seriously.

But that would leave Francis alone in this place, and Francis _needed_ to be here in a way that Jerott did not.

Jerott had come this far with Lymond, and he felt unease at the idea of leaving him now. So Jerott sighed and stared at the sky, idly counting stars and tapping his fingers on the back of the bench, and wondering what kind of album Lymond would produce on the back of all that had happened to him in the past year.

As though he had summoned that shade by his thoughts, the French windows behind Jerott squeaked and he turned his head to see a thin figure step out onto the glowing verandah. Lymond prowled, his steps stealthy and cat-like as he moved away from the lit area, busy with the confetti of moths, and into the indigo depths of the gardens. His hands were in his pockets and his hair shone like the butter-yellow porch lights. With little apparent intent, he wandered towards the bench Jerott sat on.

Francis came to a stop by Jerott's spread-eagled form and he looked down with something wry and unspoken on his lips.

Jerott responded with a plaintive request: "I don't suppose you've got any fags?"

Francis snorted and made to sit down, waiting before he did so for Jerott to move one leg aside.

He settled onto the bench and humoured Jerott with a smirk from the corner of his eye. "I do not. Do you have any Sour Patch?"

Jerott smiled. Cheap candy was all he had seen Lymond manage to stomach in this place. "Sorry, no. You'll have to wait for Marthe's next visit."

Francis murmured a sound of regret and followed Jerott's gaze up to the mauve depths of the night sky. "They do say it's common to replace one addiction with another."

Jerott's response was both guttural and disdainful. He passed a hand over his forehead and face, rubbing the skin hard enough that he could hear the friction between his rough palm and rough cheeks. "I'll happily get addicted to whatever gets rid of this headache," he said unthinkingly. "I've had it for four days straight."

Francis raised his brows, his face turned to Jerott as he waited for the other man to examine his own words.

Jerott looked at him, studying the blues of Lymond's irises and the fine, distinguished lines around his mouth and eyes. At last realisation surfaced. "Ah. Sorry," Jerott said unconvincingly.

Francis's body jumped a little with silent mirth. He was sitting close enough that Jerott felt it against the baggy arm and side of his t-shirt, and so it was inevitable that he also felt Francis's shiver in the hot night air.

"You're cold?" Incredulity touched Jerott's voice. "It's got to be twenty degrees, and you're wearing a cardigan."

He glanced aside and looked ineffectually for something that he knew full well was not there. "I didn't bring my jacket out, or you could have it."

Francis leaned forwards, his elbows on his thighs, shoulders hunched towards his ears. "I don't know if I'm cold or not anymore. This just...happens." Frustration ground the words out, and Francis narrowed his eyes and glared out towards the shrubs and spindly trees at the end of the lawn. His fingers picked incessantly at a worn patch on the knee of his jeans.

Jerott, who was naturally warm, yet would still complain vociferously if the ambient temperature deviated from comfortable t-shirt weather, understood this a little better than Francis perhaps supposed. He laid a lingering, careful eye along the curve of Lymond's spine - a prominent track beneath form-fitting cashmere - and placed one hand flat on the table of Lymond's scapula.

Francis glanced at him, but he did not complain, and to Jerott's touch his body seemed to lack the heat reserves a healthy person ought to have. Encouraged by Francis's indifference, Jerott swept his hand over the hard muscle covering Lymond's shoulders, applying a little more pressure to draw heat to the cold surfaces of the other man's body.

He stretched his arm around Lymond's back and wrapped his hand about the thin, wiry bicep on his far side, and, with vigor and scrupulous friendliness, Jerott began to rub Lymond's body against him. Lymond let this happen, stiff and straight at first, then relaxing a little against Jerott's side, his shoulder under Jerott's arm, the wild waves of his hair catching at Jerott's jaw as they both laughed awkwardly.

Soon, Jerott deemed that he had pushed his luck quite far enough, and like a man who has been allowed to stroke the belly of a cat, he made to withdraw before blood was spilled.

Lymond leaned into him a little as he raised his arm, and did not move away with the withdrawal of Jerott's touch, nor did he look at Jerott, but continued smiling grim and fixed into the garden. More uncertain than he had been, Jerott repeated the movement of his hand on Lymond's arm and then settled as much as he could, with the other man's body vivid and complex where it leaned against his.

It might have been three seconds or three minutes, and Jerott thought he held his breath the whole time, but then Francis shifted forwards and stood. Demurely, Jerott put his fingers between his knees and held them there as he searched Lymond's profile for any indication of the other man's thoughts.

"Perhaps a walk would be a good distraction," he said, his face turned away, his hands in his pockets again, the tone of his voice utterly inscrutable to Jerott.

Jerott nodded mutely, though he knew Francis was not looking, and studied the toes of his sneakers, wondering why it should be that _he_ now felt cold without that other person so close to his side. Attempting to bring comfort to Francis always left Jerott feeling like he was the one whose concern was being catered to, not the one offering succor to Francis in his suffering.

It caught him by surprise then, when Francis did not immediately leave, but asked in a lightly amused tone of voice: "Are you coming, then?"

He blinked dumbly up at that fine, sardonic face and assembled his thoughts, which had scattered like geese at the unexpected invitation. "I? Yes? Sure."

Jerott stood up and Francis cast him another look of gentle mockery, but his smile seemed, to Jerott, also to hold some measure of gratitude.

In silence, they walked shoulder to shoulder down the cropped grass of the lawn. The scent of night-blooming jasmine made the air soupy and heavy and the cicadas cheered like a stadium audience. They turned onto one of the rolled gravel tracks that meandered beneath glossy-leaved magnolias and orange trees, winding around tree anemones the size of haystacks with foliage that shielded the men from the last traces of the light from the ranch.

Jerott looked over his shoulder uneasily and gave a laugh that sounded nervous. "Do you think if we go too far from the building the spotlights will come on and they'll loose the dogs?"

Francis laughed, but his frown seemed the more genuine part of his response. "It isn't a prison, Jerott."

With a sigh, Jerott admitted to having received warnings previously about the hidden bottles in his room and those in the branches of a tree by the edge of the grounds. He swallowed drily and stopped to run his hands through his long black hair.

"Sorry. Late night walks with you apparently still make me think of whisky and Queen songs." He tried to make it sound like a joke, but his voice eluded control. The atmosphere could not have been more distinct from that of Carlisle in November. Nothing about the sounds or smells recalled their teenage adventures, and Jerott was not even sure he was with the same person he had been friends with then - Francis seemed so often like a changeling, a doppelganger jaded with otherworldly knowledge. The only commonality was the feeling in Jerott's blood that was like a fever, like a drug that soothed and thrilled all at once.

Francis's expression did not lose its concern, but one corner of his mouth moved in a hint of a smile. "I see. Do I count for so little in your memories?"

Jerott's own smirk hung crooked on his handsome face. "I'm actually quite fond of whisky and Queen songs," he said shyly, appalled at the heat that flared on his skin and the fear that kept him from looking at Francis when he spoke. Again he swallowed, and his hand moved to his pocket. He would never say such things as this when drinking. This candid person who forgot to barricade feeling behind the pre-emptive jabs of sarcasm was not who he believed himself to be. No, his real self was inside the flask at his hip, safely cocooned in a haze that dulled feeling and lent him the advantage of emotional distance.

Then, unhelpfully, Francis said with kindness: "I know," and Jerott flinched. It was another thing that only happened because he was sober - if he had been drinking, Francis would have matched cruelty with cruelty, and Jerott's heart would not now be throbbing in his throat like a trapped bird. He stuffed his hands deep in his jeans pockets, one set of fingers fondling the lid of the hip flask. He wanted to take it out and tip the whole lot down his neck, not pausing to swallow, just igniting the wall of protective fire that had sustained him through this tortuous, confusing year.

Whatever of this Francis saw or understood, he stepped closer. "How's the headache?"

Jerott scoffed and shook his head ruefully at his feet. He was only asking to keep Jerott from thinking about the booze in his pocket.

"Rotten," Jerott conceded.

Francis shivered, another pale flower against the backdrop of violet shadows.

"And you're still cold," Jerott said flatly. "Some good the walk did."

He did not find out what Francis's response might have been - if he could have needled him into familiar mockery - because a third voice called "Who's out here?" and white torchlight fluttered over the waxy leaves next to the path. Around the corner, mingling with the cicadas, Jerott finally noticed the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel.

" _Fuck_ ," Jerott mouthed, shoving the hip flask as deep as it would go into his pocket and glancing both ways down the path, ready to bolt.

"Mr Blyth, if that's you out here again...I shouldn't have to tell you that we'll be reassessing the value of our mutual relationship..." The voice sounded world-weary, but to Jerott's ears there was an element of eagerness in it. Some of the wardens surely delighted in telling stories of the celebrity patients they just couldn't fix. He had not shied away from antagonising them - there was precious little entertainment in the rehabilitation centre - but the lack of seriousness with which he had taken the twelve step programme on offer had, until now, extended to a lack of serious belief in their willingness to have a paying customer ejected.

He gestured to Francis that they needed to go, but found that instead of following, Francis held him back with one surprisingly firm hand on Jerott's wrist.

"What are you doing?" Jerott hissed.

Francis shoved him back a step, off the gravel path and onto the summer-dry grass beneath an orange tree. "He hasn't seen you yet," Francis reminded him, and pointed to the deeper shadows behind a jasmine bush, prompting Jerott with sharp fingertip jabs at his arm and shoulder.

"You don't understand," Jerott tried to protest, stepping backwards beneath the cover.

The warden's heavy footsteps sounded more loudly and his torchlight moved like an uncanny moon over the foliage and the path they had vacated.

"Mr Blyth, we already found your stash out here..."

Jerott raised his brows meaningfully at Francis and pointed to the twisted boughs above them.

" _This tree_?" Francis mouthed back incredulously.

" _Yes, that's what I was trying to tell you_ ," Jerott managed to convey, largely via widened eyes, exasperated hand gestures and a vivid expression of panic.

Francis shook his head, his eyes steady and coloured by starlight, his long mouth a thin, disappointed line.

The footsteps stopped and in a pause in the cicadas' chanting, Jerott swore he heard the warden's breath. He leaned aside to peer around Francis, back towards the path, and he drew in a hiss of alarm when he saw torchlight roving across the yellow grass.

Francis's hair was so bright that the warden would not fail to see it, and then Francis would be implicated in this foolishness when he really needed the help he was getting here.

Jerott gripped Francis's arms. "Go," he murmured, leaning close to convey the urgency of his message.

Francis looked him over in silence and Jerott gave him a little shake. "Go - your record is clean."

What Jerott expected to happen next was that he would release Francis's arms and step aside, and Francis would move off with his long, stealthy stride, slipping deeper into the cover until he could double back onto the path and return to the ranch unseen.

Instead, Francis put his hands on Jerott's shoulders and moved closer. His gaze travelled from Jerott's eyes to his mouth and then back up: a universal gesture that Jerott had not been the recipient of for quite some time, and that gave him pause to wonder if he had, in fact, been misunderstanding the gesture his whole life. But then Francis's eyelids lowered and his lips parted, and he laid his mouth over Jerott's astonished mouth, his skin cool and smooth, his lips full of the promise of strength.

If Jerott did not exclaim in surprise it was only because he suddenly could not remember how to do so. Everything seemed complicated and unnecessary except the kiss, and Jerott closed his eyes and tried to understand what was happening by concentrating on the way Francis's lips brushed his: pliant, silken, leaving him reeling with a new thirst, wholly unquenchable by whisky.

Francis's hands were heavy on his collarbones and he walked Jerott backwards, his lips pushing insistently against Jerott's, his body pressed close as they stepped in awkward unison. When Jerott's shoulders hit the trunk of the orange tree his grunt on impact was swallowed within their kiss, and he rearranged his hands messily, releasing Francis's arms to thread his hold around Francis's narrow, muscular chest and pull him plumb against his body. Francis's grip - firm enough that Jerott wondered if it would bruise - moved upwards, his fingers massaging the hair at the nape of Jerott's neck, his thumbs pressed hard against the lines of Jerott's jaw.

The two men were about the same height, but Jerott was raised slightly on the mound of earth at the base of the tree, and Francis folded against him, his face upturned and his back a hollow curve beneath Jerott's hands. He had no idea of time, he had no senses to spare for his surroundings and instead he plunged into the moment with only a dim, melancholy awareness that it might end at any instant - that it was, perhaps, only happening with such reckless urgency because of the imminent threat of discovery by the warden.

Still, with each movement of tongue and lips Jerott felt something fall into place with the world, like this was a secret he was only just being made privy to. He had been the kind of teenager who had wanted, always, to kiss others like this, but he did not believe he ever had been kissed like this himself. While it lasted, he wanted to show with every breath that he was capable of matching Francis's generosity, gesture for gesture.

The torchlight, when it found his face, made him flinch despite all intentions to the contrary. He pulled back and raised his chin with regret, his eyes screwed shut against the brightness focussed on them, the back of his hand rising to cover his mouth.

"Good evening, Mr Blyth," the warden said with weary satisfaction. "Did you get your friend there to drink the Scotch this time?"

Jerott shifted his hand to try and shield his eyes and shivered when Francis stepped away from him. The warden was still relishing his soliloquy: "...it's legal, of course, but we don't allow _any_ of our guests to fraternise. It interferes with the process, and I'm afraid this will still have to go on your record - oh! Mr Crawford, sir _. Lymond_. I didn't see it was you."

In the stinging light, Jerott could barely make out his own arm, let alone where Lymond now was. A new, fawning note had entered the warden's strident voice though, and Jerott let himself lean back against the tree once more, his heart a drum-roll in his chest, his cheeks bright with heat, a fresh taste on his lips that cut through the sickly scent of flowers.

Lymond chuckled, and it sounded false, goofy and high to Jerott's ears, but it set the warden at ease. Francis said something to excuse Jerott - "Mr Blyth just thought he was going for an evening stroll. There's no need to record it, surely?"

"Well, we record all incidents, it's a matter of protecting our other guests, you see..."

Jerott blinked slowly and found that the warden had let the beam of his torch drop to the ground. Lymond had gone to him, his gait shuffling and awkward, one hand ruffling blond hair, the other open-palmed to his side - a politician's offer of openness, Jerott thought. He was gabbling about the warden's family, talking about signed records and getting caught out for smoking behind the bike sheds at school. Jerott knew for a fact that _that_ was a lie.

But Lymond had guided the warden nearly back to the path, and the warden had all but forgotten Jerott.

He had to endure one last flash of the torch in his face - and the warden's promise that this would not be overlooked, that Mr Blyth was still on thin ice - and then they were out of sight. Beyond the foliage, Jerott saw their silhouettes move off; he heard the warden's voice rise with confidence into the night air, fading from hearing far more gradually than Francis's soft tones.

Then he was alone again with the scent of flowers, the insatiable demands of the cicadas and the mottled starlight. He did not return immediately to the ranch. His lips felt swollen and they tasted of Francis. His t-shirt smelled of him and his hands missed the feeling of his body. Overstimulated, oversensitive, Jerott did not know what to do with these sensory inputs. He touched his fingers to his mouth and closed his eyes. He thought about tearing the t-shirt off and leaving it in the tree - would he be abandoning it or preserving it? - he thought he should be angry, but he could not summon his anger, though it was usually so swift to rise to the surface.

It did not occur to him to reach for his hip flask until he was back in his own small white cubicle. By then he was able to breathe steadily without thinking about it. By then he was able to remember that he was in love with Marthe, and that that kiss had just been a distraction. Just like Lymond's conversation, just like the walk that had failed in its purpose. It had been a professional move, barely any different from when they shared a stage and a microphone, cheeks touching, sweat mingling.

Jerott swallowed. He took out an old photo from his wallet, and one that was more recent. Sober, he did not feel like himself, could not reconcile his feelings with those the photos ought to inspire in him. Fumbling after his hip flask, Jerott found that his pocket was empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to whisky and Queen songs will make more sense if you've read the prequel, [Music is a made-up thing like myth](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TheBandAU/works/20167357).


	2. Chapter 2

The garden was alien in the morning light. Cropped yellow grass, speckled with attempts at green, was arrayed with pristine benches that made Jerott think of headstones. The foliage at its far end was tidy, ordered, far from the wilderness it had appeared in the dark.

He sipped his weak black coffee and puzzled at the view from the French windows. The breakfast buffet was subdued, the sound of others' chatter and the smell of fresh orange juice filled the room. Jerott was surprised that he had slept soundly, though now his mouth felt strange without the remnants of alcohol on his teeth and tongue. He had dreamed, but remembered nothing of it except a sense, caught in the corner of his eye, poised to tap him on the shoulder, that he had been perfectly content with something. It was a strange feeling, and it left him on edge and suspicious.

"You'll be able to get your hip flask back when you check out," Francis materialised at his side like mist, or the scent of jasmine, and Jerott flinched.

Jerott examined the contents of his mug and stood very still, wondering whether 'thank you' was the appropriate thing to say, or an apology, or something else.

Francis stood straight and tall as a willow rod, his eyes fixed on neither the garden outside nor the reflections in the window pane. "That warden is a racist prick," he added in the same measured, conversational tone.

"Don't -" Jerott bit out, but he did not know what he wanted to prevent. He looked up, his gaze faltering over the details revealed by the morning light: Francis's neat, dark lashes, the structure of bone and cartilage in his narrow, refined nose, and - Jerott wondered that he hadn't noticed before - the surprisingly cushioned lips, not prominent, but shapely.

He dropped his eyes back to his mug and shook his head. "You shouldn't have done it."

Francis did not ask what he meant, but shrugged. "It makes no odds to my record. Have you considered, Jerott, that it might be worth your while to actually follow the suggested programme here?"

Jerott's breath hissed in his teeth. He held onto the retort that came to mind and reminded himself that he had chosen to come here to help Francis, to prove something to Marthe about self-discipline, to satisfy his curiosity about the nature of the cure on offer. "I'm here for you, not myself."

He did not have to see Francis's face to imagine the sourness adorning it. "And while I am filled with gratitude, you might try demonstrating your assistance in a manner befitting the setting."

Then, to Jerott's surprise, the lash was lowered as swiftly as it had been raised, and Francis turned towards him, his empty coffee cup at his side, and he rested one set of long fingers for a moment on Jerott's arm. "It is only a couple of weeks."

Sullenly, Jerott raised dark eyes to Francis's, and he sighed at the expression he was met with. What could he do but nod briefly and blush into his coffee cup?

"Goodbye, Jerott," Francis smiled, his hand lingered for another second, and then he left while Jerott said distractedly: "See you."


	3. Chapter 3

Between then and visiting day, Jerott attended all he was required to attend. He asked his usual obtuse questions, but with less evident disdain than usual. He got used to sleeping without impediment and to the taste of his own mouth in the mornings. He did not see Francis, but this was not unusual - parallel sessions, group work targeted by substance, as well as private therapies kept Jerott and Francis's routines distinct.

Marthe stood in the sun outside the ranch, resplendent in short denim dungarees that were cropped to the tops of her sun-touched thighs. She wore large black shades and a wide-brimmed hat that cast shadow over half her torso. When she saw Jerott, she almost smiled.

He approached, his heart jolting with each step he descended from the ranch doors. He knew that his expression was a confused jumble of teeth and eyebrows: he squinted against the sun and tried not to give her the satisfaction of the joy that wanted to burst onto his features.

"Hi!"

Marthe tilted her head, her arms folded. Her lips, he realised, were really quite different from Francis's: the colour was deeper, the sardonic curve was more prominent. They would feel better beneath his own mouth than any other lips, he was sure.

"Wanna go for a drive in the hills?" Marthe asked. She sounded bored, but instead of feeling rebuffed, Jerott had some confused thought about James Dean and the inherent attractiveness of rebellion. He caught himself before he agreed too breathlessly, and glanced back at the ranch.

"Francis will be here soon."

Instead of agreeing, Marthe took off her shades and pinned him with a frown. "No. He won't."

"What?" Jerott's smile was still on his lips. He was thinking of the shape of Marthe's body and how pleasingly distinct it was from all else he saw during the day to day  routine  of life in the rehab centre.

"Francis isn't coming," said Marthe, with the tone of a medical professional. "He checked out earlier this week."

"What?" Jerott repeated, his lowered brows finally beating his smile into retreat.

Marthe gestured with her head towards the car park. "Come on. I'll tell you in the car. He's already started his next project."

It was too far from the beaten track of his expectations for Jerott to know how to respond. He ran his hand through his black hair - the heat of the sun was in it, but he felt like a cloud had just come between him and its warmth, and his shoulders tensed. He tried to laugh, to believe that he was confused and had misheard, and he asked once more: "What?"

Marthe sighed and took his hand with her slender fingers. She walked and he followed like a lost child, anchored by her touch, but otherwise lost in the tangle of questions, the maze of possible decisions that suddenly assailed him. Francis had mentioned nothing about a new project. He had talked to Jerott about what Jerott might do next, but had not spoken of himself at all. Surely he should not have left so quickly, not after months on end of gradually increasing dependence, not when he still trembled with phantom cold spells and subsisted on little more than coffee and candy. How would he manage?

Jerott looked at Marthe's muscular, lightly freckled arm and at the profile of her face, and she seemed the only thing that was within reach: real, present, honest in her likes and dislikes and in all her intentions.  And, if he was honest with himself, was it not the case that he had already made his choice, just as Lymond apparently had? Jerott's heart had chosen Marthe, and he could not regret staying here, with her. He did not need to follow wherever Lymond's insatiable aspirations had taken him to: Jerott had always known there was more to life than music.


End file.
